Knots And Ribbons
by volley
Summary: Trip has to give a lecture at McGill University before he's off to Florida for Christmas. Malcolm tags along... A bittersweet Christmas tale.


This Christmas story is dedicated to RoaringMice, as a small thank you for her help as my beta during the past few years.

Because I wanted it to be a surprise for her, this was beta-read by IchthusFish. Thank you, my friend!

§ - §

"So much fuss," Malcolm muttered under his breath, a little cloud of vapour punctuating the words.

He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, and increased his pace, even though the crowded sidewalk made it difficult to keep any kind of walking rhythm. Trip hurried after him, sidestepping a large man who took way too much room for the good of the flow.

For some reason Malcolm had been in a bad mood since morning, when they had stepped into the Shuttlepod that would take them from Jupiter Station to San Francisco. Maybe _bad_ was not the right word; certainly _withdrawn_ described it well. The grey eyes had been unfathomable, and a certain stiffness about his friend had been flashing a 'keep your distance' warning. Trip felt uneasy around Malcolm when he got like that – which wasn't very often, in his company, any more. It was at times like these that he could sense the dangerous side of his friend, a side entirely different from the side that would share beer and banter with him; a side he preferred not to think about.

Breaking into a light jog – and with the help of a traffic light that had turned conveniently green – Trip caught up with him. They stood at the edge of the sidewalk as a long line of hovering vehicles began to stream by, their soft hissing almost hypnotising.

Duffle bag hanging from one shoulder, Trip shifted on his feet, hugging himself tightly. Why hadn't he taken his heavier jacket? Even for a short stop, Montreal in December was a hell of a cold place to be. Months on end in freezing space and he had forgotten how _nice_ it felt to be at minus twenty! But then again; when he had accepted to give a lecture at McGill University on the problems of the matter/anti-matter intermix in a warp engine, he had only considered how many hours it would take away from the fortnight Archer had granted his crew for Christmas.

Oh, well. Tomorrow at eleven-something he'd be touching down in a much warmer climate.

Malcolm – sullen mood in tow – had tagged along, saying he'd catch a connection to England from Canada. Trip had thought he had come for the company, but the man had napped – or looked out the porthole – throughout the flight.

Trip cast a side glance at the wiry body beside him. Eyes straight ahead, Malcolm looked benumbed, even though he, at least, had geared up properly for the weather. But of course the man wasn't going to Florida after this.

"Have you decided if you're takin' tonight's connection?" Trip enquired, his voice shaking slightly from the cold.

"Don't know." Malcolm shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps tomorrow morning's."

It wasn't like Lieutenant Reed not to know what he would do the very night; or to delay a decision. But Trip didn't get a chance to dwell on it, for the light changed and his friend began to cross. He hurried after him.

Trip checked the street sign. "St. Catherine…" He looked at his padd. "Sherbrooke ought to be the next big street up."

"Yes. And left. It's not far."

Trip's eyebrows went up. "D'you know your way around here?" No wonder Malcolm had struck such a determined pace.

A quick glance darted his way. "Well enough," Malcolm answered, without any further explanation.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Scowling, Trip pocketed his padd, which his fingers had become half-frozen in holding.

There was no answer, or apology. But Malcolm suddenly turned to face him. "There is an entire underground city, here. If you're really cold we can drop below."

Hands under his armpits, Trip blinked. "Cold? Ya kiddin'?" he stuttered, blowing out a sarcastic breath that nearly solidified and fell to the ground.

Malcolm looked back deadpan for a beat; he appeared far from enthusiastic about his own suggestion. Then his eyes tracked to Trip's shivering form and he took off again, and Trip hurried after him.

Not far away was an entrance marked 'McGill Metro', the local subway. As soon as they stepped in front of the door and it swished open a brutal wind assailed them. The guard of the city bowels didn't seem willing to grant them entrance, but they pushed past it. The door closed behind them and suddenly they were inside.

They lazily chose the long escalator over the stairs. While it carried them down, Trip took in the view that opened up with every meter they gained. The place was surprisingly spacious and pleasant. And the subway station wasn't the only thing down there.

"Eton Centre," his laconic tourist guide said from a couple of steps lower, unzipping his jacket.

It was so blessedly warmer there. Trip felt his body begin to thaw and his blood return to circulate. His lecture was in more than three hours, so he happily prepared to be led around, looking forward – now that he could focus on something other than conserving body heat – to seeing something new.

The centre extended over several levels; there were department stores and all kinds of small shops with Earth and alien merchandise; coffee places, souvenir retailers, book stores, supermarkets, and what-else. Malcolm, who seemed to have no problems finding his way in that maze, lumbered on, oblivious to Trip's rising irritation – what was the man's hurry? Didn't he know how to 'stroll around'? Trip felt like losing himself – actually, _Malcolm_ – in the crowd; but, knowing the Security Officer, at the very least he'd suspect a kidnapping and call the Mounties.

Not surprisingly the city was even more crowded under the ground than above it. It was early afternoon and people bustled about, many obviously busy doing their Christmas shopping. Seasonal decorations were everywhere, and a soundtrack of festive tunes played merrily through the loudspeakers. A man dressed as Santa Claus distributed candies and Ho-ho-ho's.

"You'd think kids would be smarter nowadays," Malcolm muttered, casting a disparaging glance at the familiar figure.

Trip chuckled. "What, didn't you like Santa?"

"Flying reindeers and a fat man dropping through chimneys?" Malcolm replied, dead serious. "Besides, Father Christmas seemed improbably kind. When not something else," he concluded mysteriously, under his breath.

"That's too bad," Trip said, frowning at Malcolm's tone; fond memories were instead crowding in his mind.

Giving a wide berth to a youngster who, courtesy of those new distorting glasses that seemed to be all the rage this Christmas, was staggering and threatened to collide with someone at every step, he found himself behind once again, and had to jog a few steps to pick up with his hasty friend.

"I found the truth out pretty soon," he said, back at Malcolm's side. "About Santa, that is. But I kept pretending he was real 'cause it was way too much fun."

Malcolm shook his head in what looked like disbelief. Just then a very rhythmic version of _Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer_ began to pipe through the loudspeakers. As a result Malcolm went up another gear, sprinting towards another escalator. What the hell was he trying to outrun? The music was everywhere.

"Malcolm, wait," Trip called out.

The man turned, coming to a halt, and Trip rubbed two awkward fingers on his temples. He'd had enough of rushing about. They were on vacation, for heaven's sake.

"I'm hungry," he instinctively blurted out, dropping his hand. "Why don't we grab a bite to eat?"

Malcolm retraced a few steps. "What's your idea of 'a bite to eat'?" he enquired, with a distrustful narrowing of the eyes.

Trip almost rolled his. Didn't the man know well enough? They had shared countless meals on Enterprise. But on second thought maybe Malcolm meant 'now that we have real food at our disposal'. He shrugged. All he wanted was a break from this headlong march. "Anything." he said. "Pizza, kebab, Chinese, hamburger, hot dog... ya name it."

"I was afraid so." Malcolm sighed. "We're in the city of restaurants and…" He checked the time. "But it's too late – or early – for a proper meal, anyway," he commented to himself. Jerking his head, he beckoned. "This way. Bottom floor."

A few minutes later they had reached a large space with tables in the middle and food stalls all around. There was literally every Earthly cuisine – and also a few alien ones – on offer. It took Trip a moment to choose, but in the end he went for a good ol' hot dog; Malcolm didn't think twice and went directly to the Lebanese stall.

Throwing his dufflebag on the floor near his friend's, Trip put his tray down onto the table at which Malcolm was already sitting, deflating loudly as he slipped into the facing seat. "What's that?" he asked, glancing at his plate.

"Halva. A sweet."

Malcolm brought a cup to his lips, only to recoil with a grimace. "You'd think they could manage to make coffee that won't send you to the major burn cases department," he ranted, replacing the cup on the table.

Trip chuckled, trying to defuse his friend's irritation. He finished spreading mustard over his hot dog; then took a first bite, leaning back in contentment. The cold and confusion had got him unnaturally tired. While he chewed, he took a moment to study the taut man before him. Come to think of it, he had also grown tired of ignoring Malcolm's evidently _off_ mood.

"You know, if being on vacation puts you in such a relaxed mood, you'd better go easy on your downtime," he said, after he'd swallowed his morsel.

Malcolm didn't seem amused. "Do you find all this" – he glanced around – "relaxing, Commander?"

"Uh-oh: no uniform, no Commander," Trip admonished. Shrugging, he went on, "To answer your question, not particularly. But it's cheerful. It's Christmas."

Tightened lips came in support of the unrelenting gaze. "The season of hypocrisy," Malcolm commented darkly.

Trip, who was about to take another bite, slowly lowered his hotdog, his smile falling. "That's a rather cynical outlook."

The Halva was still sitting untouched on his friend's plate.

"It's like a _trip_," Malcolm said, lifting sceptical eyebrows. "People get high on this illusion of universal goodness and love; and then, even before they've taken down their Christmas decorations, they come out of it and return to stabbing each others in the back."

Trip stared at this embittered version of his friend in a straight face, but inwardly he was wincing; to him Christmas was warmth, family bonds, saying 'I love you' in a thousand different ways.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Christmas reminds people not to think only of themselves," he countered. "Every year it switches on warm feelings in those who celebrate it. So what if the goodwill doesn't last all year round? It's part of the human nature to slip and stumble."

His sweet all but forgotten, Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest. "People shouldn't need all this fuss to remember to be altruistic." The stormy eyes went to some spot on the floor. "And I'd rather not have someone 'kiss' me one day a year and 'slap' me the rest of the time," he mumbled, almost to himself.

Trip took another small bite off his hotdog, more to have his mouth full so he could take some time to think, than because he felt like it. Malcolm looked like someone who wanted to escape something but didn't know how; and Trip had a feeling that it wasn't the crowd or the music, or even the festive mood, but something much more personal, more to do with his memories of Christmases past.

"Are you gonna spend time with your folks?" he eventually mustered the courage to ask.

"I'm pretty well obliged to, aren't I," was the huffed reply. "That's what's expected of me; to smile back, bring presents, and go along with the happy charade, pretending that–"

Cutting himself off, Malcolm cast Trip another of his 'none of your business' looks.

Trip put down his half-eaten snack. What the heck – he'd take his chances.

"It's been a long time since we were last on Earth," Trip said, trying not to shy away from Malcolm's warning gaze. "You are not gonna tell me that your family will be puttin' on a smile only for the sake of Christmas."

Malcolm's facial muscles tensed and he looked abruptly away, making Trip regret his idea – maybe it really _was_ none of his business. Time stood still for a long moment, the background buzzing noise filling the silence that was now between them; but eventually the grey gaze turned back, and something had changed.

"Perhaps not," Malcolm croaked out, anger replaced by confusion – something far more painful to observe, on the face of someone who was always so self-assured. "But what does it matter; the issues between us will still be there, only pushed momentarily aside." He pursed his lips. "Every year, for a brief moment I get a glimpse of what could have been and never was. Never will be. It…"

_Hurts_, Trip silently finished for his friend. Malcolm had lowered his eyes and grabbed his coffee cup, hiding behind it, but there was no mistaking his feelings.

Hell, this was… so damn _sad_, in its absurdity. To resent Christmas because of the love it brought to the surface! To feel wounded, instead of warmed, because the harmony you longed for crossed the darkness of your soul like a shooting star, too quickly gone. And what kind of issues could create such a deep rift between a son and his parents, anyway?

"Your Santa Claus," Malcolm went on, with an unexpected bittersweet smile; his mind obviously distant, on some faraway memory. "I couldn't figure him out." He gave a soft snort. "Surely he couldn't be so distracted as to deliver presents to the wrong person every year. But perhaps he was a drunken old man, or simply too overworked to pay the necessary attention." Refocusing on the present, he concluded, "It was almost a relief to find out that he didn't exist."

Trip felt something heavy form in his chest. This was so different from what he had experienced as a child. The excitement, the Christmas tree… He wondered if Malcolm had ever made a Christmas tree; ever placed the three Kings around the crib.

As if he had read his mind, his friend cast a disgusted glance to the source of the merry tune of the moment and ranted, "To think that the real Christmas spirit would be silence and contemplation…"

"Do you think it really happened, so many centuries ago, in Bethlehem, as it's written?" Trip wondered.

Eyes on his cup, Malcolm gave Trip's question some thought.

"It takes a leap of faith to believe it," he eventually said. "But a heavenly Father that leaves his lofty heights and shares his creatures' feeble nature, ready to forgive their weaknesses…" He glanced up. "For sure it's a comforting idea."

Trip frowned. He was pretty sure there was something to be read between the lines there.

"Surely this… misunderstanding between you and your dad can be mended," he dared.

Malcolm heaved a deep breath. "There is no misunderstanding, Trip," he said wearily. "Only a father and a son who are mismatched." He gave a soft huff. "Maybe the stork that dropped me was as distracted as Father Christmas. Brought me to the wrong family."

A long silence ensued. The music coming through the loudspeakers no longer sounded merry to Trip's ears. Suddenly he was seeing things through different eyes; suddenly he wanted to escape the confusion.

"Let's go," he said abruptly, getting up. At Malcolm's surprised look, he added awkwardly, "I guess I shouldn't show up at the last moment."

Lame excuse; Malcolm was no idiot. But it would have to do.

They shouldered their duffle bags and took off, this time with Trip in the lead, going blindly through the crowd and taking every rising escalator he could find. At long last they reached an exit.

The cold air assaulted Trip's lungs like a solid thing; but it actually felt good to hear only the muffled noise of traffic. The light had already changed; the sun low, somewhere behind the high-rises, lights and streetlamps coming on.

"This way," Malcolm mumbled.

They walked in silence. Trip could tell something stood between them, but he felt kind of resentful, for Malcolm's mood had rubbed on him, and he didn't like that. Especially not at Christmas time.

It took them only a few minutes to reach the entrance gates of McGill. The quiet campus covered in snow and the old, sturdy buildings were a soothing sight; at least there was something hopeful about them, like about anything old.

Malcolm stopped, and Trip turned, feeling his absence beside him.

"I didn't mean to spoil your day, coming along," Malcolm said in a deep, ill-at-ease voice.

The light was fading quickly, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in his eyes.

"Only, I suppose, to postpone the moment I'd be alone with my contorted self," he concluded.

Trip grimaced, hating to see him like that.

"Look, my lecture is not going to be long. In a few hours I'll be finished and we can go to one of those restaurants you were talking about. I'd like to," he said genuinely. He knew he'd feel even worse if they parted like this.

Malcolm passed a hand through his hair. "No. I'll catch tonight's flight," he replied, finality in his tone. "It's better."

Trip's heart was small. "Are you sure you don't want to stay? We can–"

"Positive," Malcolm cut him off. "I'll see you in fifteen days, back in San Francisco." A strained smile – more like a smirk – twisted his lips. "Have a good time."

With a military nod he was about to go, when Trip suddenly remembered something.

"Malcolm, wait," he stopped him.

Dropping his duffel bag to the floor, he unzipped it and rummaged through it.

"I almost forgot."

In between socks and underwear he finally found what he was looking for. He pushed back to his feet.

"For you," he mumbled, holding out a small and badly-wrapped package. "I was gonna give it to you this morning in San Francisco, but then you tagged along, so…"

Malcolm blinked, gaze shifting a couple of times between Trip's face and his offering.

"What…"

Extracting his hands from his pockets, he finally reached out, a bit tentatively.

Trip grinned. "It's not from Santa. So you can be sure it's bein' delivered to the right person," he teased. Crossing his arms, he hid his hands as best as he could – the biting cold was beginning to seep into his bones again.

Malcolm flashed him a look; then started undoing the ribbon.

"Hey, you're not supposed to do that yet," Trip complained. But he was ignored, receiving only another glance, which even in the poor light looked slightly bemused.

"A picture." Malcolm looked at the object in his hands, turning it towards a streetlamp to see it better. "Of the ship." His brow creased, as he passed a finger over the frame. "Isn't this…?" He looked up abruptly.

"Yeah, that spike that pinned you to the hull. The piece Phlox removed from your leg, bent into shape," Trip said. "Properly cleaned, of course," he hurried to add. "I thought it would make a good frame for a picture of the ship you almost died to save that time."

Malcolm shook his head. "It was the Captain who saved her – and me – in the end."

"You were willin' to sacrifice your life," Trip countered, very seriously. "For us. The Capt'n told me." He captured the grey eyes. "Merry Christmas."

Malcolm licked his lips, shifting on his feet. "I'm afraid I… haven't thought of…."

Trip gave a dismissive shrug. "That's what Christmas is all about. To give without expecting anythin' in return."

Malcolm's narrowed eyes bore into him. "I'll keep that in mind," he said in his deep voice. "Happy Christmas, Trip."

Trip smiled. Malcolm had read more than he had meant, actually, in his words; but if it happened to help his friend with his burden, this inadvertent hint might be an even better gift.

Malcolm's eyes tracked to Trip's shivering frame. "You'd better go inside, if you don't want to spend the rest of your holiday in bed, Commander."

"Yeah." Trip rubbed his arms, and picked up his bag. "See you, Lieutenant."

They started each on their own way. After a few meters Trip stopped to cast a glance back; he could barely detect his friend, disappearing in the falling night and in the flow of people.

Above, a bright star was shining in the darkened sky.

THE END

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